


Addicted to You

by MadHattaProductions



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drug Use, Jamie is a runner, M/M, Mako is a druglord, NSFW, POSSIBLE Explicit Content, Possible sex scenes, Unfinished, not safe for work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 06:39:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13805595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadHattaProductions/pseuds/MadHattaProductions
Summary: Roadhog is a druglord and Jamison is a low-grade runner intent on getting close to the big boss. Stealing his wealth? Killing him? Corrupting the empire he's built? They're all past ambitions by the time they're finished together.





	Addicted to You

**Author's Note:**

> A one-off thing i wrote, a lot like everything else - it isn't finished but I don't know where it's going either!

The huge man was lying on the floor when Jamison finds him, arm outstretched and mask pushed up over his mouth.

A few bottles of whiskey lay half drunk on the floor and the distinctive smell of good pot dampens the room, pleasant by this stage in Jamison’s distinctive courier.

He fusses with the straps on the big man's chest, they seem to be making him wheeze and when they pop loose an audible sound of approval groans out of his throat, along with a deep chesty laugh.

Old music plays in the background, things from well over fifty years past and something along the lines of Rhiannon or Rihanna played in the back, a gorgeous voice lulling lines unmistakably about sex amidst the plumes of smoke clouding the air. It muffled the smooth sounds of the sweet music against his ears.

A huge hand claps him on the back, fat lips stretching over tusk and teeth into a large grin, a gruff voice congratulating him on another successful run. Jamie couldn't help but wonder what the rest of his boss's face looked like, a relentlessly imagined what would make him keep it hidden so studiously even when he was high off his face.

Another blissed out mumble came from somewhere behind the huge semi naked man and with a wry laugh the blonde realised that there was a little more to the reason for Makos state of undress and heavy breaths.

His eyes roamed relentlessly, looking Hog up and down, pausing to admire the way his vest fell haphazard over his shoulders and the way he simply splayed and relaxed in front of Jamison, a behaviour that only seemed to arise when Hog was high off more than a few things.

Jamison let his eyes ravish the man in front of him; he knew that Hog was well older than him, but knowing about and personally, albeit often accidentally, hearing all the things the man got up to, the boy couldn't see him as any less appealing.

He often thought about how any of the man's partners bore his weight, or if they'd splinter and fracture under such a heavy grasp. Whether he'd just order them to ride him and move them with his big hands, or whether he'd pin them down. Jamison couldn't exactly stop that thought when it came, and it came quite often to his attention like a savage reminder that the guy could probably snap him like a twig if he so wished. He was very into that.

His mind was already five miles away imagining the many ways Hog could have grabbed him and pinned him down, strung him up even; he wanted to screw the huge monster of a man. It wasn't something recent either; everything about the boss was a power trip, an eccentric high that only came from the boss.

Even the big rule that nobody used his name and everyone used "boss" or "Hog" lest they face a painful torture was a trip to Jamie, better than most of the drugs Hog cooked up and sent him off with.

Jamison was no junkie, though, for all purposes he kept his addictions to some toned down things.

He was a simple man: he liked alcohol, pot and he would have said tits but he'd developed a taste specifically for the roundish drug lord of a man in front of him.

He was infinitely fucked and head over heels, even the sheilas and fellas he usually thought were way out of his league on his hotness-scale weren't doing anything for him. Every hot mouth on him, paid or not, in his mind seemed to morph into thoughts of that man and honestly? He was surprised he hadn't shamelessly moaned the man's name out loud during any number of his sessions since they first met.

He had too many fantasies to count that had wired their way into his brain like fond daydreams should have in their place, accumulating quickly and building up into a pining over the year he'd worked directly under Hog. Gradually he'd made his way up the chain, doing dirty work that nobody else would do, building bombs that could be set off from miles away and taking down snitches within the lower ranks.

He'd worked his way studiously up the ladder towards Hog, and over the last year had been directly under him. He spent two years before-hand proving his loyalty and catching glimpses of the boss-man between clumping groups of wide spread body guards and loyal underlings. It was already a head trip to watch, let alone to realise that most of them didn't love the man; they loved what he could do.

What he could make.

It infuriated Jamison to no end.

Everything became his business, what gangs went where, who was aiming for whom and particularly what was shooting for Hog. No man escaped unscathed and more than a few unexplained "gas fires" burnt out the underside of the more daring fleets planners.

Squads went up in flames, without a word signalled from Roadhog himself, only to be reported as planning a hit mere days from the time they disappeared.

Lowly technician was what he was called, a freelance mechanic who only benefitted himself. He heard the fair share of complaints, the constant insults to who he was and what he did.

He was never so much as seen in or out of a scene and no bomb make was quite the same, if there was likely to be any bomb remnants left post explosion anyway. Even the parts holding the bombs themselves together were explosive, decaying under the small amounts of heat that each explosion put out triple of. It was untraceable, almost.

The catch was the planning phase and had earned Jamison a rather notorious reputation for his silence.

People suspected things, stupid things, of him. People suspected he was gathering information from other gangs, working even with the police.

His work was far too clean for them to pick at and so the rumours started in its place.

A kid with no history who makes bombs, disappearing back and forth, night and day, barely saying anything if he didn't give a fuck about it. Most of his speech was cursing at other people, rewriting plans of attack and cursing when something he made had gone slightly wrong only to efficiently fix it.

He had no ties to anyone in Hogs' gang and the question kept finding a way to his ears over and over again: just where the fuck did he come from and how did he get his way in?

Small scale drug dealing got him caught up with a middle man and a police chase that tied onto a colour-wearing biker involved with Hogs gang. Jamison had no clue. In fact, he barely had anything to do with it in the first place.

He had been nobody at the time and he didn’t _talk_ about his past. He, as far as he cared, didn’t have one before Hogs’ gang. No family existed for the boy, and even his name seemed questionable. His work was unprecedented and it seemed like it came naturally to the kid, his fingers nimble and quick with almost anything he had to build be it bomb or mechanical device. Not only was he almost void of any background that Hogs’ team could find, he proved almost impossible to catch.

The police chase began in a club, a middle man openly selling small time pills and sealed bags for more money than they were worth. He ran straight into Jamison who, at the time, happened to be busy picking out the next sheila he intended to buy a drink for. None of the women had caught his eye back then, no men either. Nobody had that wild shine in their eyes that sent him on the rush he was after.

He felt hands slip into his jeans, something stuck in his back pocket, fast footsteps and police shouting. His objective was null and before the guys hands removed themselves from his pockets his feet were moving, lithe body hauling itself up and over the countertop towards the back door to avoid the crowd. He made quite a spectacle and that was his first appearance to Hogs’ gang, a man watching from a dingy back corner booth, laughing at him.

Grabbing and grasping hands had thronged the middle man backwards into police and he struggled futilely against the cuffs that clamped down on him. Why was Jamison running?

Why was Jamison running?

It was what he had done for too long to stop now, refusing to be taken off the streets by those grasping fingers be it police or otherwise. He didn’t stop at the door.

It was a big city with teeming crowds, a place that was easy to get lost in and easy to lose everything in. Looming and full, it was a maze-ish cross between suburban homes, bars and eateries. Melbourne was a big place for one small kid.

He survived harshly cold winters and blazingly hot summers against most odds; he’d be damned if he was caught now.

A bundle of soot and ash fell onto him as the door rung open, adding grey marks to his already stained black clothing and jumper. Jamisons’ thin body lunged itself forwards and launched down the street, one foot pounding after the other; he still had the bag that had been shoved into his pocket.

His hand grappled with the brick side of a building and he made a sharp turn into another alley between streets filled with pipes and trash, the remnants of drunken party goers ripe and dirty within. Police weren’t far behind and his heart pounded in his ears in time with his footsteps, loud shouts spurring him forwards like no tomorrow.

He prayed they hadn’t seen his face; he never turned around or looked back and had had a dark cap and hoody on. He didn’t need a chase out on him already as it was.

Faster. He pushed his legs to the point of pain where even his lungs burned, emerging into the bustle of summer nightlife on the main drags amidst hundreds of people. They would be looking for his hoody, a running person and maybe a cap.

He was not taking those chances.

Jamison weaved through the crowds on nimble feet, back-peddling around couples and ducking beneath waving arms. He was lost before the police even made it through the alleyway.

Several streets away, he made his way higher. Upwards.

Fire escapes proved to be a help in this towering city and one dumpster jump later he managed to climb high enough to reach one. He refused to remove his jumper, the bite of chill would ring in his bones come early morning before the sun rose again, and the wind stung his sweating skin. Metal was warm from the hot day previously and grimy in general, an unpleasant rub on calloused hands that were too well used.

Relentlessly he climbed higher, the burning in his lungs forgotten as he reached the end of the fire escape. It was locked, of course, but window sills and jutting bricks would do just fine. With little anticipation or hesitation he picked out the strongest looking bricks, the best handholds, and analysed where he was going. He was no idiot, despite the constant impression he was doing everything spontaneously with no idea why that people seemed to glean from him.

One long leg after the other found their way onto the railing, multiple stories up sending gusts of wind battering against his sides. Such was the city after all.

He clung to the bricks like a spider, fingers gripping with all he could muster and feet braced solidly against cement window sills. He began to ascend the next meter or so to the roof, noting the lip of the gutter and where it might fall out. He had to hope it wouldn’t give way on him once he was up there.

Fast movements became slower and calculated, testing before doing, wild breaths and erratic heartbeat slowing down a little with the intense focus. A lanky body disappeared onto the rooftop.

The man from the dingy corner had followed him, watching him run, watching him climb like no tomorrow with a body that looked more like a junkies would, covered in baggy clothes and twig thin like he might snap instead. To say the man was impressed was an understatement; their best middle man hadn’t escaped clean but this kid had the drugs and the skill to go without hesitation.

That was his introduction, though Jamison never knew it himself. Wind carried the word to important ears and trials began to find Jamison, dangerous things intertwining themselves into his daily life.

The first was the break in, approximately one week after the run.

Jamison _had_ lived on the streets, once before he could work. As it stood, he barely afforded to keep himself afloat in a single room rented out to him in the Chinatown district above an unstable restaurant that charged far too much. The room was sparse with only a few decent things, a kitchenette against the wall and a large over-pillowed bed on the other, both as worn visually as the yellowing wallpaper looked old. Dust caked most items very quickly and water marks lined the edges of the ceiling above the window, a small, old and relatively broken air conditioner and heater in one sticking through the wall. A tiny bathroom was separated from the main room and held a measly shower and tiny basin sink, a toilet looking cramped in the rectangular space with the two.

No laundry or actual spare room seemed close by and an almost empty mini-fridge contained barely anything at all. A half carton of milk and some eggs lining one shelf while a single leftover container held an unwanted meal of rice and various vegetables that seemed to be from the store below, the food looked well over-cooked and a note was stuck to it that had the date from a week ago written on it with a small message that read ‘accidental order – have this for free, don’t forget rent. The space, or lack thereof, was only a small part of the problem.

Neon signs found their way into the room through disused blinds that were permanently down and decaying with holes and dust thick enough to cloud if the shutters were moved. A glass window didn’t stop the frost or the heat from getting in and wooden floorboards creaked in most areas of the studio apartment.

Jamison liked to think his queen bed was a rather luxurious extra, and when he had had it given to him he had studiously and exhaustingly hauled it in by himself without asking for help, giddy at the prospect of a warm place to sleep. His pillows came from various places, usually lovers he picked for the night.

His apartment, for all it was worth, was good for him and he found a lot of appreciation deep down for it. It was still his home, his place to stay alone with no grasping fingers or grabbing hands trying to pull at him or his clothes. Rarely anyone found their way to it and rarer still did anyone care about it at all; the dingy and ratty appearance usually deterred even the most determined thieves.

Thus, upon his early morning return the week of the break-in, a small amount of cash totalling his rent for the week on-hand, he was somewhere between surprised and pissed off. His place was an utter mess.

His bed was ransacked, sheets off and pillows misplaced across the dirty floor, covers interspersed between articles of clothing and broken plates that had taken him significant time to buy. The most disappointing thing was the state of his prized bed, flipped and frame fucked to no end. He was sure that the wood was snapped and didn’t want to know if there was a hole in the wall. His flimsy window stood to be broken and the blinds in a tangled mess on the floor.

He found his bathroom in similar disarray, near empty bottles scattered outside of the shower, cabinet of a whole one toothbrush and bottle of toothpaste ransacked with a hinge broken. He was surprised the mirror wasn’t broken, honestly.

The toilet backing had been pulled up and cast aside, leaving the inside water catchment that doubled as a backrest open to a number of insects that had crawled inside during the night. Exposed old and creaking pipework lined the inside of the toilet, only so long from never being replaced and breaking anyways.

Even at a glance, Jamison had known that nothing of _his_ had been taken. Whoever was in here was looking for what had been shoved in his back pocket.

He wasn’t stupid enough to hold onto the stuff, a few different colours inside of one large bag containing a particularly irritating amount of solids and powders crushed up together. It was an eyesore he couldn’t sell and didn’t dare to take himself. A label on the bag had read ‘H-Dro’ and Jamison had no clue what he was meant to do with that.

No street name or generalisation had ever made itself known to him called ‘H-Dro’ and he could only hypothesize that it was some sort of cocaine cut with something deadly, or powdered something that was equally as dangerous. He got rid of it the night he ran, depositing it in no way near where he felt he could be seen. Two rooftops over the bag and contained bags lay heavy pressed beneath a concrete brick paver in a line of around twenty across, ten wide, and a rusting metal carcass strewn across it resembling an old satellite dish.

It was his leverage and leeway to do what he wanted confirmed now. Whoever these people were, they had no clue where he had stashed it and he got the feeling that this was the first in a line of confrontations.

Weekly they seemed to arise, just as he settled back down into a routine of letting himself be used for moneys sake, for pleasures sake, for something to do eventually it became.

Three people this time, a night raid again. They were probably higher up the food chain, Jamison assumed, and had tailed him. The three consisted of: the first man who watched him run and tailed him to a rooftop before losing him; a woman with raking nails and clinical clean cut looks; and another man who was lanky and relatively awkward looking. The lanky man carried a plethora of devices and seemed fast enough that Jamison had to plan around him; he had too many phones to counteract if the group had thought this out properly.

He acted like he hadn’t caught the three dangerous glints turned his way like knives to a live rabbits’ skinning. Played his cards properly, found a man he thought might pay well buying drinks at the bar. Bulky, sizeable, muscular; those words sprang to mind quickly before a quick follow overlapped his thoughts: _easy to lose in a crowd_.

The man was exceptionally plain looking and seemed for all holds miserable, something Jamison usually avoided when he felt particularly risky. In fact, normally, he would have gone straight to the three glint-eyed dangers.

He left the place soon after, another bar somewhere downtown a little far away from his own house. He would not return there tonight if he had anything to say about it, the man on his arm smiling drably like he too had done this a thousand times before but the charisma coming off Jamie was enough to keep him happy until they got together properly.

Hood up, Jamison weaved them through the crowds, nudging and prodding people out of the way with a little more ease than he should have had. The person he was leading gave a sharp tug backwards, latching onto Jamisons arm as he fell backwards.

Jamison was gone.

A clawing sensation hit the man first, and then the realisation that he had lost the lanky piece he was travelling with; his grip had utterly faltered around Jamisons’ small arm and expertly that arm had left his grasp.

Jamison realised in that moment that they had a small part of him figured out. They had been watching him longer than he would have liked.

The bars weren’t so safe anymore.

He lost the man in the crowd, hearing him pick up a phone call almost immediately, cursing that he lost the ‘target’. Jamisons’ legs moved and his back hunched as he crouched, weaved, jumped and ran the distance through randomised streets.

Every face was a possibility.

An addict or a dealer, it didn’t matter to him because both were equally dangerous.

He saw the glinting eyes in the dark but he knew the look; they were watching him like they were paid to, meant to, like he was a test subject. He grit his teeth and took another sharp turn, heading towards his house.

If they wanted to play cat and mouse and pretend to know where he was going, then they probably figured that he’d run the opposite way to his base. He’d stipulated that there was some ‘things he was trying to avoid back in Chinatown, so a ride the other way was always good’ and he figured anyone listening would be thrown off.

Dark alleys got darker and thick throngs of people began to thin out slowly. His cover was thinning by the time he made his way to the back end entry to his house, empty as a ghost town. The restaurant hustle and bustle was loud as always, filled with people, and he hadn’t been seen since the street by the bar.

He heard a single muffled voice in his own apartment and wanted very little to do with it but the ends justify the means. It was a light voice, a little like Jamisons’ own in a funny sort of way if he tried to drop his accent down a notch. Footsteps told him the person was near the door and, like he hoped, the door was open. It swung in and swept the intruder into the wall, one of the few that was brick and used to be part of the downstairs restaurant.


End file.
